I am floating, the road a river. Through yellow-tinted
aviator glasses, the jungle is painfully brilliant and clear. Vietnam,
Apocalypse Now. This is the end. Nay, the beginning. A euphoric wonder floods
my mind. My trusty steed coasts slowly through the curves as I plug in my music
player. Music, pure pleasure for the ears. Roll the windows up, eager
anticipation of that first note, that opening of a story wonderful beyond
worlds. A softly confident voice begins singing, pianos and guitars strumming
exotic sounds, calming, enticing my brain into a trance. A tinge of paranoia
remaining, blocking the trance, forcing focus on the road ahead, a wholly
unfamiliar place, summer hot and green in November. The black digits of the
music player unreadable, some album I downloaded way back but never listened
to, or listened to but only as background, never hearing the intricate dance of
tunes, this musical shaman leading my brain gently through a waking dream of
overwhelming intensity.
The highway flattens out, easy driving through the coastal
plain, plantations of palm and sugarcane, cars and trucks riding my bumper. The
urge to pull over and rest can no longer be ignored; the roaring flood of
stimuli pouring through my brain reaches an unbearable level. My confidence has
evaporated, a delusion born of blindness. Under a palm tree near the toll
booths for the big west coast highway, I find a safe and shady spot to recoup.
Toll booths – a gatekeeper sweating in a blind, patiently waiting for unwary
vehicles to come within range. A policeman stares unmovingly at me from a
couple hundred yards away. News articles about toll booth hijackers, protesters
against perceived government extortion, occupy my racing mind. Will this
policeman call backup, report a vehicle staking out this remote jungle
checkpoint? How would I handle a demanding squad of state police, tearing
through my possessions and interrogating me in rapid-fire Spanish?
Then this ugly train of paranoia gets pulled to a screeching
halt. The “policeman” is a pole for an overhead sign, painted black and white
for visibility. This is a land where personal drug use is decriminalized, where
I have full legal permission to be, where harmlessly odd behavior is tolerated.
In a thousand plus kilometers of driving, I have not encountered any
checkpoints or roadblocks. True, I am all alone, distant from anyone and any
place I know, but I am well-prepared, prudent, and an unqualified success at
whatever I put my mind to. The voice of musical wisdom has changed, another
wise and gentle teacher sharing his insights through music. He tells of his
friend Adam, a former travel buddy with whom he wandered aimlessly around the
world. How they grew apart, going their separate ways until he got the call;
Adam had sent himself on to eternity. And now, full of sadness, he holds out
his little light, hoping that it would provide hope and guidance to others.
Tears flood my eyes; I feel his dismay, a deep wounding sense of personal
failure, pouring gently through my speakers on this sultry afternoon.
Imperceptibly, a soft and cooling fog rolls over my overheated brain; the dream
is over.